


Pianissimo

by deutschshepard



Category: Smosh
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Internal Monologuing, M/M, Mute Anthony, Slight Character Disability, funny/cute/happy ending, part-time muteness, really for real, so much fluff at the end your dentist will cry, the muteness isn't full-time, the rest is angsty though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschshepard/pseuds/deutschshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Anthony can't speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pianissimo

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Whoo! Huge hiatus, sorry. Thought I'd ease my way back into the fandom with this little number. There's (another) big Ian-centric fic I'm planning out, so Anthony needed some screen time.  
> Very little editing, so I apologize for any choppy grammar.  
> (No country music was harmed in the making of this fanfic.)  
> Hope you like!

Sometimes Anthony can’t speak.

It’s not a big deal. He’s lived with it his whole life. Everyone close to him knows, and they don’t make a big deal of it, nor do they tease him for it. He’s grateful to have such caring, understanding friends and family.

But it can get difficult. Crippling at times. Once he’d had to cancel two days of filming because the words just got stuck in his throat. They’d had to rush through the video because of it, and he knows it was annoying as all hell, but everyone took it in stride. He’s thankful for that.

It’s terrifying when it’s really bad. He loses his voice completely. For a _long_ time. It comes back without rhyme or reason, the same as when he loses it. He can’t communicate anything outside of body gestures and lip-reading. He can't even whisper. If there ever was an emergency during those frightening moments, he’d be completely helpless. It’s a nerve-wracking thought.

The thing that scares him more than losing his voice is losing his control.

Tonight is a bad one. He’s lying in bed. He’s staring up at the ceiling. His throat refuses to do anything other than breathe. He wants to scream and shout and yell until his lungs burst, but he can’t.

He doesn’t know why. He just can’t.

Ian is sound asleep in the living room, the makeshift couch turned bed a familiar place for him to crash. When the muteness lasts too long, Anthony has a bad habit of texting Ian when he’s nearby. He has a bad habit of wanting that connection, that comfort and security of having someone nearby in case he, you know, sets fire to the kitchen. Or something.

Anthony can’t talk or sleep. And there’s this steady ache in his stomach, in his chest, some kind of loneliness. There is nothing more isolating than this.

His feet hit the floor before he really knows what he’s doing.

He shuffles about, his feet making enough noise to make up for his mouth while he stumbles out of his bedroom. The living room is hazy with moonlight. Ian is sprawled across the couch, snoring softly. Anthony smiles to himself.

He sneaks up to the edge of the sofa and gingerly sits down on the arm. Ian snuffles, but doesn’t wake up. Anthony draws up one knee and holds it like a teddy bear to his chest, resting his cheek on the side of it. He closes his eyes and lets the steady sound of Ian’s breathing lull him into a stupor.

People take words for granted. Sometimes Anthony forgets and he does too, until another round of silence hits him and he’s humbled again. Speaking is a gift, not a right.

Anthony reaches down and carefully combs his fingertips through Ian’s hair fanned out on the pillow.

The rhythm soothes him. It’s calming, therapeutic to his anxious thoughts. Just the contact reminds him that he’s not alone. He’s not going to be crushed under this complication. He’s not going to be stranded, empty voice gasping to equally empty air. He has friends and family and people in between that make his chest swell and his fears lift. Maybe a reminder was all he needed.

Or maybe it’s just Ian.

Speak of the devil and he will stir in his sleep, muttering incoherent and probably obscene things before his eyes flutter open. Ian seems bewildered for a moment before he looks up and sees Anthony.

“Oh,” he exhales, and Anthony smiles. “Hi.”

Sorry, Anthony mouths, letting his hand retreat.

“No, it’s fine,” Ian says groggily, propping himself up on an elbow. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

Anthony shakes his head.

“You’re not okay?”

Anthony rolls his eyes and mouths, I’m fine.

“Alright.” Ian eyes him for a second. “So…why’d you come sit out here? I mean,” he hastens, “it doesn’t bother me, obviously, but I’m just wondering.”

Anthony shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes. Too quiet, he says silently.

The clock ticks. After a moment, Ian scoots over and pats the space next to him. “Come sit.”

Anthony slides down next to Ian. Ian sits just close enough to comfort him, but far enough to let him breathe. Anthony’s really lucky to have him.

There’s only a second’s delay before Ian starts talking.

He goes off on a slightly disjointed ramble, still sleep-slow before he wakes up a little. He talks about everything from the weather to the reasons why he dislikes country music (there are a lot). He talks about music and movies and TV. As he talks, Anthony snuggles a little closer into his side. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until he’s practically nuzzling Ian’s neck, and by then he’s too damn warm and comfortable to move. Ian doesn’t seem to mind too much, either.

“…that’s why I think the franchise was so successful,” he says, and surprisingly his motor mouth has run out of steam. He turns to look at Anthony, regardless of how their noses almost brush. Anthony looks back.

Ian smiles gently and reaches up to play with Anthony’s hair. He cards his fingers through the wild strands. His thumb brushes Anthony’s cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”

He’s okay now.

Anthony nods, smiling back. In his sleepy, clouded mind he’s sure he could stay here forever, wrapped up in this warm little nest and never move again.

Ian starts up again, talking a little more slowly, a little more subdued. His fingers trace shapes along Anthony’s shoulder, his back. Anthony just keeps shifting closer and closer. He only realizes that he’s kissed Ian when the silence hits him.

It doesn’t surprise him, not really. If Ian responds badly, Anthony can play it off as comfort, as fatigue, but there’s no need.

Ian kisses him back just as easily. Anthony’s mouth fits perfectly with his and it’s just. Incredible.

It takes a while for either of them to break away, and it’s only because Ian tastes like sleep when Anthony starts to explore further.

Ian pulls away, looking dazed, and it’s not him who speaks.

“You’ve got serious morning breath.”

Ian looks just as astonished as Anthony feels, but covers it quickly with a playful swat to his shoulder, grinning madly. “Not my fault you decided to wake me up at two AM,” he shoots back.

Anthony shrugs again, smiling just as crazily. “Whatever. You were on a roll and I didn’t have the heart to stop you.”

Ian rolls his eyes in a “lord help me” sort of way. “Go to bed.”

Anthony kisses him again, slow and soft. He reaches over and snags Ian’s fallen blanket lying in a heap on the floor. He pulls it over both of them, curling into Ian’s side and relishing in the warmth. It’s a large enough couch, and he doesn’t want to go back to his big empty bed just yet.

“Goodnight, Ian,” he murmurs, sleep already slurring his speech.

Ian only hesitates a beat before laughing and pulling Anthony closer.

“Night, Anthony.”

Anthony drifts off with a smile on his lips and a voice back in his throat.


End file.
